


Just Let it Go By

by nogoaway



Series: Tattoo AU [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 06:35:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4128411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoaway/pseuds/nogoaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>York moves back home.</p><p>It's the ubiquitous tattoo/flower shop AU, only no flowers and more awkward sex with your old summer camp buddy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Let it Go By

York had never expected, when he dropped out of college (for what really was the last time) and moved back home to set up shop that any of his school friends would still be around. Least of all North, who had vanished into combat arms training after high school graduation without so much as a goodbye; York hadn’t taken that one _too_ personally. It was a part of growing up, wasn’t it, to drift apart? Especially in a small town, and especially for a twin. North had probably been desperate to get out. God knows South had practically left smoke when her college acceptance letters came. And it wasn’t like York was _completely_ incapable of making friends. He didn’t have much reason to think about North, really.

The only reason York knew he was even alive was South’s Twitter updates from Ontario, which York checked on a less than regular basis. They tended towards the mundane, and never gave any impression of what exactly it was North was doing out there: 'letter from bro, wants condiments and cards. sent Freshmen LAX issue instead’, 'pic of bro serving cappie war machine in kabul. thx economic draft’, and York’s personal favorite: 'bro with pet marmot. found in boot. christened 'sonnie’ by squad’ followed immediately by 'have sent bro this month’s Gay Parenting’. 

But two years and eight months after Daedalus Body Arts’ grand opening, when York had finally paid off his car and unpacked all the boxes in his studio apartment and renewed his tattoo and pathogens license, who should show up on his waiting room sofa at 5:30 am but North, snoring softly with one arm slung over his face and his hair buzzed so short he looked bald. York hadn’t bothered asking how he got in; he’d taught North how to pick locks in sixth grade, or more accurately they’d learned together, working the cylinder on the school’s tool shed open until it broke. 

(North had kissed him in that shed, once, with his hands fisted in York’s scrimmage pinny, and York remembered liking it except for the part where North was leaning too hard on the handle of a rototiller and when he pulled York closer to him it rolled off and sent the both of them crashing to the floor. York scraped his hand on the hood and had to get a tetanus shot, but he’d still brought Elise Graham there a year later, when they snuck away from the dance in the gymnasium. She had not been impressed.)

“South mentioned you were still around,” North said, when York jostled him awake and found out what he wanted (blackbirds on barbed wire across his right bicep, and York hummed a bar of Leonard Cohen as he sketched, which made North blush; it still went all the way down to his chest). “Wasn’t sure I believed her, until I saw your sign.”

“Been here and there,” York admitted, and let himself enjoy how dense and heavy North’s arm was in his hands, how he’d filled out from the gangly left-forward who copied York’s math homework to this broad, towering stranger with scars dotting his chest. “I’ve, you know, tried–”

“'Tried in your way to be free’,” North finished, still blushing, and said “you asshole” with the same intonation York remembered from Sunday mornings over Golden Eye multiplayer and late nights at sleep-away camp, curled up too tightly in their shared bag against the monstrous, echoing sounds of the deep woods. “But really. It’s not too pretentious, is it?”

“Not as bad as the year you wanted to change your name,” York teased, and it was so easy, how he fell back into it, how the years and the distance collapsed into nothing “ _Severin_.”

North twitched under the needle gun; York teased him, the same way he did all the 'tough guys’ who came in: 'come on, big guy like you, scared of a little needle?’. But North just laughed. 

“I missed you,” he said, and a week later he was back, browsing through York’s flash book in a tank top and board shorts, dog tags clinking every time he turned a page. 

“I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked me,” York said before he could stop himself, and North’s smile was brilliant, familiar in a way that felt like relief, like you could go home again. 

“I always liked you,” North told him, like it was nothing, and to be honest York had known that; hadn’t known what to do with it, when he was thirteen and pudgy and North had held his hand in the dark. Still hadn’t gotten a clue when he was seventeen and slightly drunk and giving his first ever blowjob to his best friend in a high school boiler room because fair was fair.

“Dunno why,” York replied “I gave terrible head”.

“This one,” and North held the book up in one hand, tapping his finger over a water-color sketch of a humpback whale breaching at a near vertical. “Lower leg, maybe?”

“You want that on your body for the rest of your life, or you just tryin’ to make me shut up?” York laughed, took the book from him and flipped towards the back. “I’m calling it now, bro. I have veto power.”

“Reminds me of scrimshaw,” North said, although his smile was a bit sheepish. “Guy in my unit had a knife like that, big whale fighting a squid. And–” he shrugged. “You weren’t that bad.”

“Got better,” York offered, and turned the book back towards him. “How’s this for sea creatures?”

“A narwhal?” North nudged him under the table with his foot. “A little phallic, don’t you think?”

“Ugh, shut up.” York slammed the flash book shut, smoothed his hand over the minotaur on the cover; his first serious design, big bull-headed dude holding a ball of string. “I have to close, you wanna grab dinner?” 

“Depends,” North said, and hooked one thumb on his ball chain, twisted the tags like he was nervous. “Does Le’s still do takeout?”

York ordered them two servings of pho bo without being asked, and forty minutes later they were climbing the stairs to York’s studio laden with fresh-smelling paper bags and a case of Yuengling from the gas station. York had to move a tower of graphic design books off of his second chair, but when he sat down at the counter North didn’t join him right away, hovering between York’s fridge and the row of DVDs on the wall.

“Not hungry?” York wondered, and popped open his can. It was barely five pm, but God only knew what kind of inhuman schedule the service had set North on. 

“In a sec.” North walked over and set something down on the Formica with a clunk. “You kept this?”

“Aw, hey.” York took the little clay figurine from him, wagged it at North. “Course I did. He kept me company at school.” He didn’t remember which summer it was– some camp with a dumb arts and crafts component, and North had spent hours sculpting the little wolf-dog while York threw clay at his sister across the room. It tottered on uneven legs, and York could close his entire fist around it now, the way he could a hockey puck. 

“I lost yours,” North admitted. “I told you South broke it, but really I lost it.”

“Well,” York walked the little dog across the counter to North’s bowl, and tapped its muzzle on the ceramic. “I’ll draw you a new one, whatever it was. Eat.”

“A tiger,” North said, and finally sat down next to him. Their shoulders brushed. “It was kind of half-assed.”

“You’re a dick,” York informed him, and slurped noodles. “Who’s the artist here, huh?”

“I’m glad you had him,” North said, and brushed a finger over the back of the dog, pin-prick eyes to clay-snake tail. “I’m glad you weren’t alone.” He swallowed, and dug into his meal.

“He’s served me well,” York said, after a minute. If North wanted to tell him about the army, he could. York wasn’t going to press him. 

They wound up on York’s queen-sized futon mattress, beers going warm on the kitchen counter while York blew him long and slow, North’s hands firm in his hair. North’s breathing was loud and harsh in the little room, and York realized it was the first time another person had been in his apartment, aside from the super, realized that he liked the sound, the warmth of North under him and the trouble of finding two bowls, two glasses, two soup spoons. He’d been lonely, and when he gripped North’s hips and tried to roll the both of them North hadn’t said anything, just pulled York off him with a startled jerk and stared down at him, face red and brow furrowed. York stared back, swallowed again and again and North nodded, finally, wrapped his legs around York’s sides and flipped them, slid back into York’s mouth and pressed York’s head, his shoulders and chest into the futon with his weight, fucked York’s throat with a smooth, deep rhythm that left York short of breath and had him coming with the barest touch of North’s hand. 

After that, North showed up at the shop at least twice a week, and over the course of two months York failed to talk him out of three more designs, a snug piercing, and a dermal on his right pectoral that formed the eye of North’s (objectively terrible) first tattoo, the stick-and-poke snake his sister had given him before he left for the service.  When York asked him whether he wanted a punch or the needle, North shrugged and said, with a completely straight face, “Whichever hurts more.”

“Didn’t take you for the type,” York said, and readied a needle obligingly, watching North’s face with some curiosity when he pierced the skin. North had his teeth bared and his mouth slightly open, the same expression he’d made the week before when York had jerked him off in North’s car in the movie theatre parking lot. 

“Didn’t take you for the type to know there is a type,” North countered, and gasped when York slid the anchor in with forceps. 

“You been gone a while, soldier,” York joked, and patted him on the thigh. “I was seeing a _very_ persuasive woman for most of junior year.”

They went back to North’s place, and York found himself in the same kitchen he’d learned to wash dishes by hand in, spooning casserole out of Mrs. Lysenko’s– North’s, now– off-brand Creuset onto plastic plates shaped like fish. North still didn’t have a dishwasher, and he still sat with his elbows on the table, but the house felt huge and empty like it never had when they were kids, and all the picture frames and books and CDs had a thin layer of dust, like all North did was sleep there. 

“My place next time,” York decided after the plates had been washed and North had found him a pencil and some printer paper, pages strewn across the kitchen table full of Russian folk art designs and tiger stripes and even, to York’s dismay, an octopus. “Bring the N64, though?”

“It’s in the basement,” North said, and York watched his back unknot, his shoulders slump with something like relief. “I’ll get it in the morning.”

“Someone thinks I’m spending the night,” York teased, looping scales down the leg of a quilin, and yelped when North crept up behind him and plucked the pencil out of his hand, leaning into him.

“Your girlfriend,” North started, his lips on the back of York’s neck and his hands on York’s shoulders, and York had let his head tilt to the side, had bared his throat before he even processed what North was asking. “Do you still like–” 

“Yeah,” he said anyway, and swallowed. “Yeah, I still like.”

“Like this?” North wondered, and bit him, very lightly, just over the carotid. Goosebumps ran up York’s arm, and when he shivered the hands tightened, held him firmly against the back of the chair.

“Kinda,” York breathed, because he did, and he even had words for this sort of thing, now, after two girlfriends and a boyfriend and some people who weren’t really either– friends on an odd night, chance acquaintances. It made sense to him now, like it hadn’t back in that boiler room, North’s hands in his hair, North’s hips pressing him into the wall. “But–” He reached his arms back behind the rail of the chair, crossed his wrists one over the other. He had words, but North had never needed them. Had always known what York was struggling to say. 

North sighed, deep and long against the damp skin of York’s neck. “Mm. Thought so.” He squeezed York’s shoulder, once, then stepped back. “On your knees.”

York let a breath out through his nose, slid down off the chair and onto the floor. He couldn’t possibly be this lucky, but there it was; North was stupid tall from down here, and when York crawled to him, nuzzled at his thigh and bit at his zipper, North caught him by the hair, drew his head back just roughly enough that York had to take a moment to recalculate how much stronger he was now. 

“There you are,” North said, with as much casualness as he had every morning, catching York before homeroom.

“Here I am,” York offered. He was nervous, all of a sudden. Sure North liked him; wanted him, even, but like this? He tucked his face into North’s knees, swallowed hard. His face felt hot.

“Hey,” North said, and the hand let go of his hair, smoothed over his head and neck, over and over. “Hey, it’s just me.”

“Mpphh,” York mumbled, and clutched at his calves. North had nice legs. Army probably made him do calf raises daily, or something. “I dunno. Dunno what I’m doing.”

“So we’ll talk terms,” North soothed, and patted him on the back of the neck. “Come on, don’t hide.”

“No, I mean–” York sighed, frustrated. “Dunno what I’m doing _at all_. I’m a loser. I’m a loser and you’re gonna laugh at me or leave again or–”

“Hey.” North moved to step back and York let him go immediately, ashamed of how clingy he was being. “None of that.” He knelt down so they were face to face, and gripped York by the arms before he could crab-walk back across the floor. “Come here.”

York stared at him. “Um. Why? Pretty sure I’ve effectively killed the mood, buddy, so–”

“Christ.” North rolled his eyes, and he looked so singularly fond that York couldn’t help but let North pull him into a hug, ease them both down onto their sides until they were stretched out on the kitchen floor. 

York blinked at the linoleum. It was kind of dirty up close, but whatever. He was having an existential crisis, North’s failure to Swiffer was just one more drop of depressing shit in the infinite depressing shitvoid.

“Is this about your dad?” North wondered. “Don’t tell me he really thought you were gonna be a lawyer.”

“Maybe?” York started to shrug, but North’s arms were so tight around him all he managed was a sad little twitch. It felt kind of nice, though. In case the earth stopped spinning and York was at risk of flying apart, North would at least keep his arms stuck to his torso. “I just. I’m almost thirty, dude, and I’m never gonna own a house.”

“Do you remember James Telford?” North asked, and York frowned into his shirt, thrown by the non sequitur. “Goalie in seventh grade until he busted his jaw and got spooked?”

“Uh, yeah. Jamie, yeah.”

“He’s an ad exec now,” North said, and reached up again to stroke York’s hair. York probably should have found it annoying, but the rhythm was soothing. “Married a doctor. Big house in the Heights, two point five kids.”

“Golden retriever,” York mumbled “or black lab?”

North laughed. “Exactly.” He gave York a little scratch behind the ear, like he was a dog, and York huffed out a little half-laugh of his own. “Just like his parents, huh?”

“Right,” York said, remembering now. “They hosted team parties at their place until he quit.” York had gotten lost in their house more than once. There were a thousand doors, it had seemed like. High ceilings. 

“You used to tell me 'if I ever end up like that, just take me out back and shoot me.’”

York gave a real laugh at that. “Yeah, I did. I also used to like Nu-Metal, though, so–”

“Oh, hush up.” North balled his hand into a fist, gave York a mock noogie at the back of his head. “You’re an artist. You’d be miserable in a suit.”

“I draw fake Chinese characters on Valley girls,” York choked, struggling to get free. 

“Objectively false.” North ground down harder, then took mercy on him, flattening his palm out and ruffling York’s hair. “You have a 'no bad tattoo’ policy.”

“Shouldn’t let you in my shop, then, with this monstrosity,” York countered, and darted a hand between them to hike North’s shirt up. “Seriously, did she do this with a safety pin, or what?”

“Leave my snake alone,” North started, and then rolled his eyes when York burst into laughter. “Childish.”

“Can’t breathe,” York wheezed, pushing at his chest, and North finally let go, watched with an unimpressed look while York flopped down on his back and gasped for air for a good thirty seconds, grinning manically up at the ceiling. 

“Are you done?” North asked, after a moment, and York swallowed, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“Yeah.” York blinked hard. If he started crying he was never going to get up off the floor. “Yeah, I. Yeah. Thanks.”

“What friends are for,” North said, and elbowed him lightly in the side. York reached over blindly, and landed a hand on North’s stomach, crawled it up to his chest and shoulder, trailed it down his arm to weave their fingers together.

“So,” York asked, finally. “What _are_ we doing?”

“Picking up where we left off,” North said, and squeezed his hand. “Right?”

“I–” York frowned up at the ceiling. “Yeah. That’s. That’s exactly what we’re doing.” He sat up, glared down at North. “Seriously, that’s it.”

“That’s it,” North confirmed. He had his eyes closed, but there was a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth. 

“How did you _know_ that? What kind of fucking sorcery–”

“I’m special ops,” North said, and his eyebrows quirked up. “I know all kinds of things.”

“You’re a freak,” York told him.

“Mmhmm.” 

York sank back down onto the floor and let North pull him into another hug. He felt– safe, and a little dusty, and like his life wasn’t complete shit.

“Thanks,” he mumbled into North’s collar.

“Mmhmm.”

They lay like that for a long time as the sun set outside, darkening the kitchen.


End file.
